


Constellation

by Tethys_resort



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beleriand, Blood and Injury, Crack Treated Seriously, Family, Family Dynamics, First Age, Gen, Maedhros and Fingon can be read either way - take your pick, Nargothrond, Other, The Noldor, crackfic turned serious, finrod does science, severed body parts, sons of feanor - Freeform, the obligatory gil-galad parentage fic, the problem of gil-galad, weird science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28917735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tethys_resort/pseuds/Tethys_resort
Summary: Finrod, a hand, and a crack idea turned serious….  And Gil-galad, eventually.
Relationships: Aredhel/Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Finrod Felegund | Findaráto, Ereinion Gil-Galad & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Fingon | Findekáno & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 11
Kudos: 39





	Constellation

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This story starts with a severed hand and lots of blood. (Is it present? Yes. Is it graphic? No.)
> 
> Note: On the behalf of my sanity, all of my stories are in the same little “world”. In this world I do not ship Fingon/Maedhros or Aredhel/Celegorm because I think the implications of that loyalty if they aren’t together are very interesting. 
> 
> Does that mean I care if it is your ship? Nope.  
> Does that mean I care if it is not your ship? Nope.
> 
> (In other words, don’t bother to bug me on this one topic because we all have better things to do.)

Finrod saw the Eagle flying into their camp on the shores of Lake Mithrim and ran to follow it, in his haste leaving behind the basket of wild onions he had been gathering. 

Camp was minor bedlam: he was almost run over by a mounted messenger leaving camp at an unsafe speed, healers were running about with boxes and every other elf seemed to be running about with much less purpose and much more noise. From the yells and exclamations there was nothing wrong with his eyesight: Fingon and Matimo really had come into camp on the back of an Eagle.

The Eagle was bathing in the lake, splashing water in great sprays and creating minor whitecaps that rocked the tiny collection of boats. 

And there was blood. 

Through the middle of the camp there were drips of blood and drag marks into Uncle Fingolfin’s cabin. Fingon sat in the doorway, eyes closed and draped awkwardly so that the Healers had to climb over him. His chest was soaked with blood and there were runnels down his trousers to match the smear across his cheek next to his eyes. 

“Fingon?” Finrod didn’t want to startle his cousin, but he couldn’t stay right there. He wondered how much of the blood was Fingon’s. Someone should at least check. “Findekano?” And it would be better to clean off the blood before it dried. Dried further. 

Fingon opened his eyes and uncurled a little. “Finrod?”

“Did you really get him back?”

Fingon uncurled more and swiped at his face, leaving more streaks of blood. “I had to cut off his hand.”

Belatedly, Finrod realized the thing Fingon was cradling against his chest was a hand, rather battered. He swallowed, reminding himself that throwing up wouldn’t help. 

“I tried to give it to the healers. But they can’t put it back and they won’t let me in.” Fingon turned desperate eyes on him. “What do I do with his hand?”

So Matimo was still alive. Finrod stared at the blood. With that much lost, barely alive.

They both stared at the hand.

Fingon gulped. “There was blood everywhere, I tried to get a tourniquet on it.” 

“Err…” Finrod blinked, the problem had never come up on the Ice. “What did Matimo want done with it?”

That was the wrong thing to say. Fingon folded up over the hand. “He said to kill him.” There was a sniffle from the under the dirt smeared braids. “I can’t hurt Nelyo. I couldn’t get him down though, so I was going to have to...” The rest trailed off into sobbing. 

“Maybe it’ll grow back? Like it would in Valinor?” Finrod wasn’t certain what else to say or how hopeful to sound.

Fingon took a deep shuddering breath. “I doubt it, nothing did on the Ice.”

True enough. It had been years and none of the elves who had lost hands and feet to the Ice showed any signs of regrowth. Finrod tried a different tact. “Come on, lets at least get out of the doorway.” 

Fingon didn’t move and from behind Finrod, Turgon said, “You must be the luckiest idiot of an elf to walk Middle Earth. What were you thinking?”

“Turko…” Fingon uncurled and shoved the hand in Turgon’s direction. 

Turgon made an ominous gulping noise and Finrod said, “Give it here. I’ll take care of it. I promise.” When Fingon didn’t move, Finrod carefully pried the hand out of Fingon’s. “I promise I’ll take care of it.” He looked at Turgon desperately.

Turgon rolled his eyes but his voice was soft as he pulled his elder brother to his feet and started dragging him away. “Finno, come on. Let’s get you cleaned up a little, then maybe they’ll let you inside.” He led his brother away toward the lake.

Finrod looked around, Aredhel and Artanis weren’t back yet. He looked at the hand and winced, it was cold and clammy. He didn’t want to carry it around like this and from the voices Uncle Fingolfin and the healers were very busy trying to keep Matimo out of the Halls. Shuffling the appendage to one hand, he fished through pockets until he came up with a handkerchief. He folded it into the fabric and tied a neat knot on top and another loop to carry the thing.

Much better.

Trying to look like he wasn’t doing anything except walking off with lunch, he set off across the camp to his cabin. Once inside he set the bundle on his worktable with an audible thud, muttering, “Sorry about that,” to the hand.

The stream north of camp would probably preserve the hand long enough for Matimo to decide what he wanted done with his hand. Or maybe bury his corpse along with the hand. But it would be better if he could seal it into something. He threw stuff out of his chest and onto his bed. 

Books, no.

Jewelry, also no.

Parchment. He stared at it, trying to decide if he could fold up some sort of envelope but eventually rejected the notion.

Dirty tea cup. Too small, no.

The socks (she said they were socks) Artanis made before she gave up knitting forever in favor of her beloved back strap loom. Not water tight. But they might do as padding.

An old waterskin. That had more promise. It had a carved stopper that was broken but it was at least water (and therefore hopefully fish) proof. 

He cut the top off and wiggled the sides as he stared in. Something to tie it closed would be good. With any luck they could burn or bury the thing without opening the skin again. 

One of his hair ties. That would do. He even had one that matched the banding on the waterskin.

He slid the whole package of hand-in-handkerchief, “socks” and waterskin together and tied it shut before stepping back to admire his handiwork. It would do. And with luck his Feanor cousins wouldn’t object to anything. Celegorm, especially, had been horrible about everything being absolutely perfect, correct and planned. 

Finrod thought it must be some sort of odd coping mechanism, the Valar knew that Maglor was sleepwalking through life like his soul had gone missing. 

The northern stream was fed by a glacier and turbid with mud and silt, poor for drinking water but excellent for cold storage if you could wrap things well enough that neither the stream minnows nor the silt were a problem. 

It was a long walk but he took the hand well upstream, right up to the base of the glacier, so that no one would accidentally pull it out and unwrap it. (He could just hear Uncle Fingolfin’s sarcastic commentary after the squirrel in kitchen locker incident.)

He pulled a few rocks out of the edge of the creek bed. Then a few more for good measure, grumbling as the hole filled up with water. 

It was cold enough that his fingers immediately went numb. Finrod wasn’t certain how cold water in Mithrim could be colder than the Ice, but yelped when he pinched a half frozen finger. He flapped the injured hand before inspecting the finger. No damage but it certainly felt critically wounded. He blew on the offending finger and tried to ignore the shouting he could hear from camp. He’d better hurry up. 

When the water filled hole was big enough, he set the hand-in-deflated-waterskin inside. 

From the yells echoing up from the lakeshore, Matimo’s brothers had arrived angry. Or maybe Aerdhel had returned angry. He could distinctly hear Aerdhel and Celegorm at least. Uncle Fingolfin’s voice rose above the rest and Finrod winced. 

He set several large rocks on the waterskin and turned to run back to camp. And then hesitated, just dropping a few rocks on it seemed rude. So he patted the rock pile, “Stay safe now until we figure out what to do with you.” 

***

“I have something for you!” The tiny Maia looked like a delicate crystal elfling, clear and blue in the moonlight. 

He was slightly drunk, so his first random thought was that the Maia of Narog River and the Taur en Faroth had decided to give him gifts for the three hundred year anniversary party of the completion of Nargothrond. But the Maia in question was one he had never met.

The second was that his hair tie was still in pretty good shape.

“What is this?” Finrod knew exactly what it was – nothing else would be carefully tied up in a waterskin he regrettably recognized. He gulped as he realized he was holding Maedhros’ hand. He stifled a hysterical giggle that was hiding in his throat. 

“I am going now, and so have brought it back to you.” The Maia wiggled in glee at his expression. 

Finrod settled the frosted package next to him and tried again. “You were up in the stream at Mithrim?” There, that sounded polite. Even if he had never intended to gift her his cousin’s hand, a Maia with enough power to freeze the hand for four hundred years could easily turn him into an ice sculpture for the Watch to find. 

She giggled. “Too warm, I was in the glacier!” 

He smiled as the Maia shifted through the deep blues and greens of a mountain glacier, frost gathering in her hair. “Thank you very much for holding this for me for so long.”

With a final splash and giggle, she disappeared into the river. 

Finrod stared at the hand, he supposed that “bury it” was the appropriate action. Perhaps he should build it a tomb? He could commission a painting for Maedhros. He visualized his cousin’s reaction to a drawing of a miniature “hand tomb”. It would make the next big strategy gathering interesting. 

“Good evening, Lord Finrod.” He smiled at the deep rumble of the Lady of the River Narog. 

She and the Lady of the Hills of Faroth came up, towering over him where he sat with his feet in the water. The Lady of the River Narog murmured, “It still has the potential of life.” 

“The potential?” Finrod suddenly wondered if they could put the hand back on. Maedhros had adapted to the lack of hand, (it had indeed never grown back, nor did any other limbs lost here in Middle Earth) and swore that he didn’t even miss it any longer. But Finrod was certain that he would not pass up the chance to get it back. He wondered if he could Sing it with enough power to simply stay frozen until they could reunite it with its original owner. “Could we put it back?”

The Lady of the Faroth leaned to look more closely. “No, that time is gone. But it could be made new.”

Finrod stared at the two very powerful Maia standing in the shallows of the river. His scalp prickled as the Lady of the Faroth, a gray huntress who brought shadows with her, coiled up the rock. Her wisdom, patience, and cold violence brought the hills around Nargothrond a measure of safety but to stare too long at her was to see the long quiet fall into dreams and visions. 

Her finger brushed the surface of the leather, carrying the scent of cold water. “Perhaps. Perhaps I could shape it anew, allow it to grow a new soul and duplicate its old body.”

Finrod visualized two Maedhros. The only person who (including Maedhros) would be happy was Fingon. “I am deeply sorry my Lady, but I do not believe we should duplicate my cousin. It would cause him distress.”

She sighed, “A pity, it would be an interesting experiment.”

“It would.” Finrod thought reattaching the hand would be an even more interesting experiment, but that had already been rejected.

“Perhaps you could mix it, as Lord Irmo does with dreams?” They both looked at the Lady of the Narog and she continued. “Most life takes the components of both parents, and all the traits of their ancestors into consideration as it forms.”

“Hmm…” The Lady of the Faroth was too close, and in the billows of her cloak Finrod could see war. He jerked out of foggy images of the Noldor army as she said, “Perhaps we could add more components? Lord Finrod?”

More components. He blinked and tried to shake the fuzziness of visions out of his head. “More components? What would that be?”

The Lady of the Narog said, “Parts of you, and others you deem worthy to make an elfling with.”

“An elfling?” Finrod was trying to keep up. 

The Lady of the Faroth said, “You know, when two beings come together—“ 

Finrod cut her off hastily, “Yes. I think I understand,” but in answering turned and accidentally looked directly into the Maia’s eyes. 

They swirled with tornados and fire. The visions struck him and he sobbed helplessly a moment, caught in everything that could be. Findulas, Orodreth’s daughter not strong enough to lead. Or Angrod, honestly equally inept. Of Aerdhel who had contained incredible potential, but now lay in a tomb in hidden Gondolin. Of a future with Uncle Fingolfin, Fingon, and everyone else dead. Of the Noldor at war with each other and leaderless. He yanked his eyes away and lay retching and gasping as the two Maia stood silent.

His heart slowed enough that it wasn’t drowning out rational thought and he took a deep breath. He didn’t see dreams and visions like Galadriel, just snippets. 

Accurate but lost snippets. 

But if he can see it, he might be able to change it.

In a mad spin of heart he said, “A High King, one day. What could we do to make an elfling that is of the House of Finwe and looks exactly like it?”

The Maia of the Faroth smiled down at him, the tornados gone and the fire a candle flame. “I will need blood.”

***

“You look like crap. You will give my family a poor reputation for health, wealth, sanity and possibly hospitality like that.” Finrod hadn’t expected anything different when the easiest cousin to reach from the southern route was Caranthir. (The northern route was dangerous during the best times of year and finding Amras and Amrod was a puzzle.) At least he wasn’t being tossed right back out into the snow or told to sleep in the stables. 

Still, he forced a smile onto his face. “Thank you for your insight, cousin.”

Caranthir drew a deep breath and one side of his mouth tipped up. “I got it wrong again, didn’t I?” He sighed and shook his head. “Let’s see, Maglor left me a list.”

Now open mouthed, Finrod watched Caranthir search his desk. It was in the third drawer and labeled in large letters, **“Why you keep offending other elves.”**

“Ah. Priorities. Always offer hospitality first before offering my opinion.” Caranthir sighed again, obviously reading the rest yet again before looking at Finrod. “So, hospitality before asking why you are traveling alone in midwinter and look like crap. Or before finding out if you are staying for the night or until spring…. Honestly, the dwarves are easier to talk to.” 

Caranthir stuffed the paper back into his desk and stepped around the edge. He patted Finrod on the shoulder as he went past. “I have a room all ready for family, and the baths won’t be busy this time of day. Come on.”

Finrod followed him off down the hall, wondering if the entire rest of the family had misjudged Caranthir. 

It was over a tasty private dinner (after a beautifully warm bath, a brief nap in a gloriously soft bed, and the gift of house robes equal to any of his own) that Caranthir tried again. “Cousin, why did you come all the way here?” He stared at Finrod across dessert. “Your brothers have made it abundantly clear that I am the least friendly and most tedious of your cousins, you have overshot Nan Elmoth by at least two weeks travel if you wish to see where Aredhel lived, I do not have the authority of Maedhros or Maglor. So, trade?”

“A business proposal for family members.” Despite his desire for secrecy, it was rapidly becoming obvious that he would need at least one conspirator for his plan to work.

Despite being blunt to the point of exceptional rudeness, Caranthir was a good listener and better interrogator. The entire story, including his visions tumbled out of Finrod’s mouth. Somewhere in the middle, Caranthir produced a bottle of wine, sliding a glass neatly across the table to him. 

When he was done, Caranthir stared at him blankly before smiling suddenly. “And Angrod called me an arrogant fool.” The smile turned into chuckles. “How exactly were you intending to find all my brothers and then steal blood?”

Put that way, Finrod had to agree that it looked pretty foolish.

Caranthir peered into his wine glass. “So the Lady Maia of the Faroth can create a new elf in the House of Finwe.” He looked at Finrod. “One not cursed by the Doom or the Oath?”

“Yes.”

“And the more samples you can find, the more the elfling in question will look like Grandfather and the less like one of us specifically?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll help.”

“What?” Finrod had expected more arguing. “And why are you not shocked by all of this?”

Caranthir’s smile had nothing of humor this time. “You haven’t seen some of the things that have come over the mountains at Himring and Aglon. Your Lady Maia isn’t the only one to have thought of this and Uncle Fingolfin is a monstrous fool for not pressing the Siege before it gets too far.”

He walked back over to his desk and pulled out a slate and chalk. “So, I’ll help you get your blood in exchange for a grandson of Feanor as High King.” He hesitated. “And a minor finder’s fee.”

“A finder’s fee?” If it wasn’t a totally impossible fee, Finrod couldn’t believe it was going to be that easy.

“Obviously you want this as secret as possible, it will make this much harder on my end. I would like a gem from Valinor. Any type will do, although my lady favors yellow.” Caranthir blushed bright red. “I want to give my Irdri dear something really special as a marriage gift.”

***

From his view on the castle walls, Lake Mithrim hadn’t changed in the slightest in all these years. His eyes sought out the spot where he had hidden Maedhros’ hand. The glacier looked the same.

“With that expression, you’d think you hate the five year meetings as much as I do.” 

Finrod glanced over his shoulder at Caranthir. Caranthir wore his usual scowl. “Did you eat something that disagreed with you or are you unhappy to see me?”

Caranthir leaned on the parapet. “Sorry. My brothers are especially bad this time.” Without looking away from the small town he pulled out a small box, neatly tied shut with a rather gorgeous hair tie. “Here. Every brother except Maedhros, I figured you already had his hand.” He paused again. “The hair tie is for you, a gift. I made it.”

“It is lovely, thank you.” Caranthir blushed and Finrod slipped the box into his coat and handed a small leather fold wallet back. “So did you and Lady Irdri formalize things yet?” 

Caranthir blushed harder. “We got married.” 

“Congratulations.” Internally he smiled, Caranthir would like these offerings and they would make a nice wedding present: a full matched set of the extraordinarily rare (even in Valinor) rippled gold and yellow sapphires mined south of Tirion. 

Caranthir leaned over to whisper, “I went through the odds, we need at least one child of Uncle Fingolfin if we want to pretty much guarantee the elfling comes out with black hair.” He grinned suddenly, “Only Fingon would be delighted if the results had red hair.”

Finrod tried not to giggle. 

Caranthir continued, “Turgon is still least in sight. Celegorm was out looking and he and Huan together couldn’t find the trail into that city.”

“So Fingon then.” His brothers had been easy (He had simply explained that he was doing an experiment and they had sighed and sat down at the table, resigned to their fates. He didn’t think his experiments were quite THAT bad.) but the Crown Prince would be harder. Maybe they could rope Maedhros in? The only problem Finrod could see there (other than his circle of conspiracy would grow yet again) was that he did NOT want to explain the hand.

“Be ready tonight, it should be easy if you are standing in the right spot. The hard part was making sure that was making sure Celegorm loses his temper at a better moment.” Caranthir glanced down at the city one more time before looking Finrod in the eyes. “I don’t know if Celegorm will ever get over letting Aredhel down.”

He walked away and Finrod’s pocket felt suddenly heavier as he remembered Aredhel sitting on top of Huan and laughing at her “other big brother”. 

That evening, Fingon proposed a toast to “a productive gathering” and Celegorm (by that point extremely drunk) stomped up and punched him in the face. Finrod thought he was probably the only one to notice that the guards that piled in to pull Celegorm away were all Caranthir’s battle guard, unobtrusively dressed to blend in with the party. 

Leaving Finrod standing right there as Fingon clutched at a bloody nose.

***

Finrod walked up the trail, trying not to slip in the fresh snow.

He and the Lady of the Faroth had agreed that he would come once a season to see how the experiment progressed. Too much attention would be bad, and he had to still run Nargothrond. It didn’t keep him from very slowly amassing the things an infant elfling would need.

In the clearing at the top of the hill, the Lady of the Faroth was waiting as an ankle high mist. Her voice echoed very subtly through the meadow. “Lord Finrod, well met.”

“Good morning, Lady. How are you?” He walked across to the little pile of rocks they had built into a pedestal and leaned in to look at the giant egg nestled into the nest at the top. He patted the top curve gently. It was warm, as always, despite rain or snow. “Why hello there, giant egg.”

The egg was, as always, completely silent. 

The Lady of the Faroth took a more physical form, sliding up between the grass to stand next to him. “It grows.”

“How can you tell?” Finrod didn’t doubt that, but was curious how the Maia could tell. Despite repeated testing, the senses of Maia were a great mystery. The Lady of the Faroth and the Lady of the Narog had tried repeatedly to explain but the answers had been rather nonsensical from Finrod’s point of view.

“It calls and Sings already. Its soul wraps around its flesh and begins to tie through.” As usual, relatively incomprehensible. And then, “It will hatch soon, and need a name to tie it here into Arda.”

That was comprehensible. Finrod glanced back at the Maia. “How soon?”

In the very long pause, Finrod reflected that apparently some Elf questions were equally completely incomprehensible to many Maia. 

“The ferns will be as tall as two fingers, and the crocus blooming.” That was clear enough. “I will send word when it is time.” Even better.

Finrod sang as he walked back down through the hills. By the time he had reached the trail head he had chosen “Ereinion”. 

The night the tiny Maia arrived he was having dinner with Orodreth. The little thing scuttled up across the table and did a messy backflip into his soup course. Then, gripping a slice of carrot as a flotation device, piped, “Lord Finrod, it is time!” 

He said, “Thank you!” and the little thing giggled, delighted. So he said, “You may have the soup if you wish,” and ran out of his quarters to the happy squeals and splashes of the Maia behind him. (He wasn’t certain he wanted his soup anyways after a Maia had treated it like their favorite swimming hole.)

He ignored Orodreth yelling as he ran.

Finrod came back several hours later with his egg bundled in his cloak, now beginning to hatch. And discovered that he had completely forgotten about Orodreth. 

Or, was reminded right after he had carefully tucked the egg into a blanket wrapped box he had ready by the fire and a voice behind him said, “Uncle Finrod, is that an egg?”

They stared at each other, and then down at the egg. The egg splintered more. 

Finrod whispered, “This is Ereinion. Do you know anything about hatching eggs?” He had forgotten to ask about that part. 

Orodreth blinked. “Don’t bother geese when it is in progress?”

“Listen, I have to go ask. Watch the egg, I’ll be right back.” Finrod lurched to his feet and Orodreth grabbed his arm.

“You are not leaving me with the most enormous egg I have ever seen while it hatches!” He scowled. “I don’t even know what an Ereinion is.”

“An elfling! You have an elfling, this should be familiar territory.”

“Finduilas didn’t hatch from an egg!” Orodreth grabbed his cloak off the chair by the door. “I’m going to the bar next to the main cavern and interviewing elves until I find one who raises poultry. You,“ there was a pointed finger for emphasis, “are going to watch the Ereinion hatch!” 

Finrod watched his nephew run out the door and hoped he’d come back quickly. Or at least come back.

Amazingly, the egg hatched without assistance from them, and Ereinion was a fine male elfling complete with Noldor gray eyes and a tufted shock of black hair. They checked. Orodreth all the while muttering about disowning them all if the Ereinion had wings, gills, scales, a tail…. (The list was quite long and Finrod tuned it out after “tail” because he thought a prehensile tail would be a useful and attractive appendage.)

For his part, the brand new elfling had obviously had a tiring day. He squealed and gurgled slightly before blowing bubbles and settling into sleep. Finrod tucked him back into his (now emptied of egg shell) box cradle and tucked around the embroidered blanket Caranthir had sent last spring. 

Orodreth watched Ereinion fall asleep in silence, fingering a piece of eggshell.

Finally he sighed and said, “Do you have milk goats?”

That had been arranged for years, resulting in a thriving cheese export industry. “Yes?”

“And do I want to know who or what you had sex with other than Lady Amarie?”

Finrod snorted. “I didn’t. But I can tell I had better explain quickly.”

There was no quick way to explain it, and Orodreth stared at the elfling through the entire thing. When Finrod got to the egg part Orodreth sighed and shook his head. “So Ereinion. You have terrible taste in names. Next you’re going to name the poor thing “Rodnor” or something equally appropriate for a pet rather than an elfling who will have to live with the name.”

“That’s your objection?” Finrod had expected a lot more recrimination, consternation and possibly horror.

Orodreth swept a handful of eggshell toward the rest before smiling. “It seems a bit late for that.” The smile grew. “Congratulations, you are the proud father of an elfling with either eleven fathers or no fathers depending on how you count it. And no mother.”

“I think the Lady of the Faroth would count there.” Finrod’s chin rose. “And he is mine.”

“And then you start getting into explanations of eggs.” Orodreth started snickering. “I can’t wait for you to explain where elflings come from when he is old enough. Are you going to explain the truth to him? If so, keep the shell.”

Finrod glanced at the sleeping elfling and started laughing. “You know, I hadn’t thought of how to explain the truth to him. Or how to introduce him to the family. Do you think Uncle Fingolfin would be much surprised if he just appeared?”

“Let me think up a better name than Ereinion for an epesse and I’ll let you claim that he is mine and fostered with you.” Orodreth raised an eyebrow. “It’ll be an obvious lie but at least if you, my wife and I all proclaim it loud enough, it’ll be hard to object.”

***

Finrod and Gil had only been in their guest quarters in the castle of Lake Mithrim for about thirty minutes when they had the first of their guests. 

Orodreth gave Finrod a solid hug. “Uncle, it is good to see you again.” He turned to Gil and grinned. “How have you been? I think you’ve added a hand span in height since I last saw you.”

Gil bounced to him and he swept the elfling into a hug too and muffled the excited chatter only slightly. “Hello! Did Finduilas and Auntie come this time? I drew star charts this winter, do you want to see?” Finrod smiled at the enthusiastic questions as Orodreth obediently followed the elfling to his travel bags: Orodreth came to visit Nargothrond regularly, bringing Gil gifts of books and art supplies.

“So this is the elfling too young to travel before?” Fingon stood in the doorway with Fingolfin behind him. 

Finrod shrugged. 

Gil, noticing the newcomers, trotted over to clutch Finrod’s hand. Finrod said, “Gil, this is my cousin Fingon and his father King Fingolfin.”

Gil smiled at them and bowed. “I am pleased to meet you. Did you also study mathematics?”

Fingon started laughing as Fingolfin came in and sat down on the rug to be eye to eye with the elfling. “I did indeed, how far along are you?”

“Triangles.” Gil paused in thought, head tilted in perfect parody of Fingon at that age. “And angles. Angles are okay, but triangles are boring.”

Fingolfin’s eyes narrowed but he nodded before glancing around the room for inspiration. “Were you showing that star chart to Orodreth? I would like to see it too.”

As Fingolfin and Orodreth learned about the movements of the winter stars, Fingon whispered, “He is not yours.”

Finrod glanced back, face blank. Finally he said, “I am fostering him for Orodreth.”

“Ah. Fostering Orodreth’s son?” Fingon stared at the elfling as Gil bounced to his travel bag to bring back a tiny hand flute next. “Orodreth of the blond hair, with wife and daughter of similar hair color? No one from Uncle Arafinwe on down in your entire family lineage has hair that color.”

Finrod sighed and went for part of the truth. “Calling him Orodreth’s son puts him at the very end of the succession.”

Fingon smiled and it reached his eyes. “So he truly is an elfling in the House of Finwe somewhere.” He choked back a laugh. “He has Maedhros’ face and ears, you know?”

And Fingon’s eyes, Aerdhel’s hair, Caranthir’s math skills and his own curiosity for natural history. The stubbornness, massive intellect and budding diplomacy skills were harder to pin to a specific cousin. The friendly good cheer was entirely his own. (At least, Finrod couldn’t think of a single cousin it matched.) The Lady of the Faroth had truly created a proper Heir to the House of Finwe, as promised. 

“And he looks a lot like Grandfather, doesn’t he?” Fingon was watching his face and the smile grew wider. “Does he belong to one of the Sons of Feanor?”

They stared at one another in silence before Fingon murmured, “And if he belonged to say, Maedhros you would never tell...”

“Never.” That much was true at least.

Fingon grinned and pulling Finrod’s head over, whispered in a ghost of air, “I can tell there is a lot more to this story than you can or will tell. Tell me someday when it is safe?”

Eye to eye, Finrod smiled back. Together they turned to watch Fingolfin frown as he ran his fingers over the loose tail of one of Gil’s braids and gently tilt his head to examine his ears. 

“I’ll help.” Fingon walked over and sat down next to his father and Orodreth. “Hello Gil, I am your father, Fingon.”

Gil started laughing, “I am very pleased to meet you Ada.”


End file.
